


Toys and Trinkets

by Dessie



Category: Press Gang
Genre: F/M, Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:mistress_scarlett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessie/pseuds/Dessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike, Lynda, Colin and a Friday night in the office. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toys and Trinkets

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lizzie for being a brilliant last-minute beta once again!  
> Story is set during Series 5, just before _There Are Crocodiles_.

The offices of the Junior Gazette were dark and silent as you would expect late on a Friday night, the staff having departed for the weekend several hours previously.

_Thwack_

Well...almost silent.

_Thwack_

And not very dark at all, really.

_Thwack_

"Spike..."

"Lynda," said Spike pleasantly, catching the tennis ball as it bounced back to him and preparing to throw it at the wall again.

"Spike, darling, if you don't stop making that noise I'm going to make you organise the duty rotas for the next month and explain to each and every member of the news-team why it is that they're working every weekend until Easter. And then I'm going to make it your responsibility to get the financial report from Colin for the Thursday meeting."

"Now that's just cruel and unusual punishment, boss." Tossing the tennis ball over his shoulder to land with precision in a conveniently-located wastepaper bin, he sauntered over to sit on the seats next to the editor's desk and propped his feet up on it.

"Desk. Feet. Now," said Lynda, and he removed them with practiced obedience. She then looked up for the first time from the piece of paper she had been frowning at and frowned at Spike instead. "Come to think of it, where is Colin? I haven't seen him all afternoon."

Spike raised his eyebrows. "And that's a problem, is it?"

"Not at the moment. Ask me again when the bailiffs appear or that man with the shotgun turns up again."

Sensing that his girlfriend's attention had turned back to her proofs, Spike sighed, moved to put his feet up on the desk, obviously thought better of it and put them down again, leaning forward with the best serious face he could manage.

"Lynda."

"Hmm?" She looked up, attention still clearly elsewhere and began tapping her pencil against her teeth. "Do you think we should fire Graham?"

"What for?"

"I haven't decided yet."

He tried again. "Lynda."

"Hmm?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

This got her attention at last and she whipped her head up. "What? What happened to the watch I got you for your birthday? You're telling me you've lost it already, after the time and effort I put into your gift..."

"You got Sarah to pick it out for you!"

"Right! I cared that much! I could have asked Julie!"

He got a grip on himself. "Lynda, I haven't lost the watch. It's right here, okay?" He held up his wrist to prove it. "It was a rhetorical question."

"It was a what?" She gave him a sideways look. "Did you swallow a dictionary?"

"The point is, Lynda, that it is now -" he glanced at his watch "- nine-thirty on a Friday night, and we should have been at our dinner reservation two hours ago. I know, I know, it was a crazy idea, spending a nice romantic meal with my girlfriend on a Friday night. What was I thinking?"

"I'm not doing this for fun, Spike. Julie's really left me in the lurch here and this has to be done."

"Lynda, her Mom's in hospital!"

"So? She'll probably still be there on Wednesday when we've done final paste-up." Having apparently won the argument, she turned her attention back to her pencil and began crossing lines out with ferocious intensity. "I don't know what you're complaining about, it's only a meal. We can do it next week. And I did say you could go home."

"The thing is, Lynda..." He leaned forward again, trying to find the words. "I really do need to talk to you..."

Apparently not noticing - or ignoring - the tone, she said absently, "Well, I've started that 'open door' thing on a Wednesday morning. Talk to Julie and we'll book you in then."

"Lynda-" Spike said, trying to keep a grip on his temper, then paused. "Do you hear barking?"

"Spike, the more you talk to me, the longer it's going to take me to finish this and then we'll never get to the restaurant at all..."

"No, listen." They both paused to do so, heads comically cocked on one side.

"Wait, I do hear it..."

The barking grew louder, before a faint rattling was heard - similar to that which might occur were someone trying the door of the Junior Gazette offices and finding it locked - then grew fainter again.

Spike and Lynda exchanged glances.

"Weird."

"A lazy burglar?" suggested Spike. "Realised we hadn't helpfully left the door unlocked for him and left?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "With a dog?"

He shrugged - then, suddenly, the barking was back, this time accompanied by a thunderous knocking, as some unknown person started hammering on the outside door, shouting unintelligibly as he was drowned out by the dog.

Lynda got up from her desk with a sigh, grabbing her keys. "Would a little peace and quiet be too much to ask for?"

Spike darted in front of her as she moved towards the newsroom doors, hands holding her back protectively. "Wait a sec - you're going to what, go talk to the crazy person with a Rottweiler? Who's probably an axe-wielding maniac?"

"In Norbridge?"

"It could happen!"

The noise from outside continued as she slipped under his arm and headed onwards. Spike leaped onto the nearest desks and ran over them, landing neatly in front of Lynda with his hands held out. "Much as I hate to get mushy on you, boss, I'd be kinda upset if you were brutally murdered in front of me, you know? It might even ruin my weekend and no one wants that."

"Please. You'd probably bring a date to my funeral."

"Well, sure," shrugged Spike, "but it'd only be to make you jealous. Don't want you haunting someone else."

"Trust me, Spike," she said, smiling sweetly, "if you brought a date to my funeral, my ghost wouldn't let you have a moment's peace for the rest of your life."

"You say the nicest things, boss."

She opened the newsroom doors and headed out into the outside corridor, Spike following. The barking had subsided somewhat, though the knocking was even louder out here, and they were able to finally make out the shouts.

"Colin!" The unknown person hammered on the door again. "Colin Mathews! I know you're in there! I'll break the door down if I have to!"

"See?" said Lynda. "He just wants to kill Colin. I'll tell him that Colin's not here and that he should add his name to the waiting list. No problem."

"And if he decides that killing you is the next best thing?" Spike called as she moved to the end of the corridor, called out "Just a minute!" and began unlocking it.

"Then I would have been wrong," she said, struggling with the key. "And it would be that proverbial cold day in hell that I keep telling you about."

The lock finally clicked and she swung open the doors, revealing a large, bald man wearing a white vest and an enraged expression.

"Are you Colin Mathews?" he demanded as soon as the doors were opened, struggling to keep a hold on the huge black dog beside him. Then the man seemed to register the short girl with the shorter skirt standing in front of him with her eyebrows raised, which gave him a moment's pause. "Well...er...I mean..."

He recovered and rounded on Spike as he came up the corridor to stand behind Lynda's shoulder. "Are _you_ Colin Mathews?"

"Not the last time I looked," said Spike cheerfully, "but you could always check back tomorrow."

The man at the door stared at him in bewilderment. "What?"

"Spike, don't," warned Lynda. She addressed the visitor. "Colin's not here at the moment. But I'll tell him you asked after him, Mr...?"

"How do I know he's not here?" asked Baldy, trying a look he probably thought was cunning.

"Because I'm telling you he's not."

"Yeah, but, he could be like...hiding or somethin', couldn't he?" He suddenly pushed past them before Lynda or Spike could stop him, striding into the newsroom with his dog trotting at his heels.

"You can't just...!" Lynda began, dashing after him, but he ignored her, kneeling down next to the dog.

"Arnold! Sniff him out!" The dog barked once in reply and began sniffing round the desks, tail wagging furiously.

"Your dog's name is Arnold?" said Spike before he could help himself.

The bald man straightened up and moved forward to lean over Spike, who was suddenly very aware of both his own diminutive height and the extraordinary number of tattoos their mysterious visitor had. "Yeah. So?"

"No, no, that's cool," said Spike hurriedly. "Good name for a dog. The best. Can't think of a better one. Right, Lynda?"

Lynda, frowning in concentration as she stared at the dog, realised her attention was sought. "Sorry?"

"Arnold? Great name for a dog, right?"

She gave him a blank look. "Spike, I don't care what the dog's called, I care what it's doing here!" She turned to glare at the visitor, who appeared to be doing some thinking of his own. (It looked painful.) "Look, whatever Colin's done to you, however much you want to kill him - and you're going to have to go on the waiting list for that, by the way - I promise you, he's not here." She had obviously been tracking the progress of the dog as he sniffed his way past the meeting room and towards Graphics, and suddenly raised her voice, drawing the bald man's attention back to herself.

"You realise, of course, that you have absolutely no right to be in here? In fact, this is criminal trespass. Spike, call the police."

"Um, sure thing, boss." He began to move towards her desk, but was thrown up short by Baldy appearing in front of him.

"No police, d'you hear me?" he barked.

Spike backed off. "I'm guessing you're not their biggest fan, huh?"

"Spike, get that phone and call the police this second," said Lynda, not taking her eyes from the intruder.

"Don't you dare!"

Spike sighed and dug his hands into his jean pockets. "Could we maybe come to a decision here, guys?" Then he froze in horror as his hands registered the lack of small, metallic objects in his pocket where a small, metallic object should, in fact, be. He started to pat all his pockets frantically.

Neither Lynda or the bald man seemed to have noticed his moment of panic however, still facing each other in their standoff. Baldy appeared to be thinking again - though it may just have been the same thought as before and it had taken him this long to work out where he had left off.

"Arnold!" he called, and the dog abandoned his post where he had been whining at the door to Colin's back room and trotted over obediently. "All right. I believe you. The little scumbag's not here."

"Glad that's all sorted out, then," said Lynda, still with her arms folded.

"But," he barked, waving a finger under her nose, "I know he's gonna be here, see? Cos this is where the deal's going down, tonight -"

"What? What deal?"

"- so," he continued, ignoring Lynda's outburst, "I'm gonna leave Arnold with you, to make sure he don't go anywhere once he's here."

"You really do mangle your personal pronouns, you know," said Lynda. "I assume you're talking about Colin?"

He stared at her suspiciously. "Are you taking the mick?"

"Of course, she's not," Spike smoothly interrupted before Lynda had a chance to open her mouth, grabbing her shoulders and leading her to one side. He turned so that he had his back to the bald man and muttered, "She wouldn't 'take the mick' out of the _nice psychopath with the killer dog_, would she?"

Lynda looked affronted. "Spike, we have no evidence that the man's a psychopath," she hissed. "And this could be a story!"

"Oh, I should have known..."

"Eh?" called the possible psychopath. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing, nothing at all..." said Spike.

Lynda tried a different tack. "I'll tell you what we were talking about if you tell us about this deal that's supposed to be taking place tonight?"

The bald man looked blank for a moment before unexpectedly chuckling. "Nah, you're all right."

Spike and Lynda exchanged glances as he knelt down to the dog. "Arnold, stay."

The dog growled.

"Stay," he repeated. "These?" His waving finger indicated Spike and Lynda. "Bad people. _Cat_ people. They try to leave, they try to phone this Colin or warn him in any way, you tear their throats out, right?"

"Oh, come on," said Lynda, rolling her eyes. "You expect us to believe he can understand you?"

The man got up and came towards her, a hurt look on his face. "Say that again?"

"She didn't mean it," said Spike hurriedly.

"That dog..." He pointed for emphasis at the animal, who had chosen that moment to start scratching his ear with his hind leg, looking very comical as he did so. "That dog can understand every bloody word I say, you hear me? Go on, try it. Try to phone this Colin bloke."

Lynda shrugged and started to move towards the phone; then she jumped in shock as the dog sprang towards her, growling and baring his teeth. "Um...good doggy?"

Baldy gave a smug grin and headed for the newsroom doors. "Have a nice evening. I'll be back." With a wave, he left.

Spike sighed. "Boss?"

"Yes?" said Lynda. She had moved away from the phone but was still watching the dog nervously as he continued to growl.

"Guess this means we're not going to make dinner, huh?"

 

***

"How can you work at a time like this?" Spike paused. "Wait. Stupid question. Forget I asked."

The dog had let them go back to their original seats, Lynda at her desk, Spike stretched across the seats next to it. She had risked reaching out to the phone again, but Arnold had made his opinion of that pretty clear - with even more teeth this time - and she had taken up her pencil and gone back to her work again.

"Well, there's no point in sitting around moping, is there?" she said calmly, looking for her ruler. "We can't do anything until Colin or whoever he's supposed to be doing this deal with turns up. So we might as well wait it out and hope there's a story in it for us at the end."

"And in the meantime I starve to death."

She sighed. "It was only a meal, Spike! Why are you getting so worked up?"

"Because there was something I wanted to -" He stopped himself. "Just because, okay? It was important that I had a nice, romantic meal with my girlfriend in a restaurant. In public. Without Lynda Day's _Junior Gazette_ getting in the way. Just once."

She looked up in order to frown at him. "Why are you -" Then her frown deepened. "What are you looking for?"

Spike straightened up guiltily from where he had been poking around under the seats. "Nothing."

"Spike? What's up?"

"Nothing!"

She put down her pencil and leaned forward. "But nothing meaning something, am I right?"

He rolled his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're going to play supportive girlfriend here, I don't think my nerves could stand it."

"Spike, I'm trying to be sensitive and understanding here!"

"I know!" he said. "That's what's so disturbing!"

"There's no need to be -" She stopped. "Do you hear that?"

He listened. "Yeah." A strange sort of whining noise was coming from the other side of the desk.

Together, they got up and moved around the desk to where Arnold the dog was lying on the floor. He looked up as they approached and continued to whine piteously.

"What's wrong with him?"

"What, I'm Doctor Dolittle all of a sudden?" She knelt down in front of the dog and reached her hand out to him cautiously. "You must know all about dogs, your Dad had a couple."

Spike considered this. "Well, I know if you feed them too much candy they throw up all over your house, but that's probably the limit of my medical knowledge."

"Veterinary knowledge," she corrected.

"Lynda, really, there's no need to start making words up."

She got to her feet. "Looks sick, doesn't he? Perhaps he ate something?"

"In here? What would he eat, a typewriter ribbon?" Then a horrible thought occurred to him and he started patting his pockets again in desperation. "Oh, don't tell me..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I just...lost something earlier." He leaned down to look under the seats again. "He has, hasn't he? He's swallowed the... Oh, this evening could just not get _any_ better."

Lynda stared at him, curious. "What did you lose?"

"Just something."

"Was it important?"

He didn't answer and she pressed him. "Valuable?"

"Well, I'm thinking it's kinda lost its value if it's somewhere inside that thing," he said, indicating Arnold. He knelt down and addressed the animal. "If you've eaten it, I get first dibs on killing Colin, okay?"

The dog whined again, tail thumping feebly on the floor.

"Spike, what was it? What did he swallow?"

He straightened up again, sighing. "It was going to be a surprise."

Lynda frowned at him. "Spike, you know I hate surprises."

"You hate so many things, boss. It's hard to keep track. Hey, do you hear that?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"Lynda, I mean it, I think there's someone in Colin's office..."

"What do you mean," she said, folding her arms, "'I hate so many things'?"

"Oh, now who's changing the subject?"

She glared at him. "Spike, are you trying to say I'm judgemental?"

"Not judgemental," he said thoughtfully. "Temperamental, maybe."

"I am not temperamental!"

He had to laugh at that one, which may, on reflection, have been a mistake.

"Right, I want examples."

"Boss, you can't be serious..."

"Give me examples so that I can prove to you that you're wrong!" Then she paused as the slight scuffling noise that Spike had heard before sounded again. "Wait...is that someone in Colin's office?"

"Well, I thought so, but what does my opinion count for around here?"

She shushed him and began to walk over to the doors at the back of the newsroom, beckoning Spike to follow her. He did so, obediently standing on the other side of the doors as they both reached out to grasp a handle each.

"Count of three," Lynda mouthed and he nodded in response. "One, two..."

"Hi, guys!" The doors had been flung outwards before the 'three' could be reached, knocking Spike and Lynda off their feet in unison. Colin stared down at them. "What are you doing down there?"

"Building a fort." Spike got to his feet and moved over to help Lynda on to hers. "You okay?"

She ignored him and turned back to her financial advisor. "Colin, do you care to tell me what you're doing in my newsroom at half past ten on a Friday night when I haven't seen you since lunchtime when you 'popped out for half an hour'?"

"Is it really half past ten already?" He looked earnestly at the watch on his wrist that he was not, in fact, wearing. "Doesn't time fly when you're having fun? But seriously guys, I want to know what you're doing here. It's half past ten on a Friday night, you two young lovebirds should be out there, having fun, enjoying your youth - 'cause let's face it guys, you're not getting any younger. The lines are starting to show, am I right?"

Lynda, arms folded - always a dangerous sign - gave him one of her best glares. "Colin, I am not in the mood for..." She paused. "Hang on, what do you mean 'the lines are starting to show'?"

Colin chuckled and nudged Spike with his elbow, clearly on some kind of death wish tonight. "That's our Lynda. Great sense of humour and I won't hear a word said differently." He glanced up at the newsroom clock. "Well, great to talk to you guys but you know how it is. People to do, things to see...loved your input, let's do lunch." He moved to shut the doors to the back room, but Lynda was faster, hand whipping out to grab the door frame.

"Colin, are you not going to ask me about the dog lying in front of my desk?"

He looked over. "What dog?"

"Boss?" said Spike, also looking in that direction.

"Yes?"

"The dog's gone."

"Yes, Spike, thank you for pointing that out."

"It's what I'm here for, boss," he said cheerfully, heading over to look behind Lynda's desk.

"Am I missing something here?" Colin asked, looking puzzled.

"Usually." She started to look under the desks on the other side of the newsroom, pausing after a couple to glare at Colin. "Don't even _think_ about going anywhere," she warned; then she caught sight of movement behind Colin - who was still looking very confused - and moved back to the door to his office.

He turned to see what she was looking at and saw the same thing; a large black dog who had sniffed his way to the middle of the small back room and lain down on the floor, whining piteously and looking depressed as only a dog can. "Lynda, there's a dog in my office!"

"His name's Arnold," said Spike brightly, joining them outside the door. "Isn't that swell?"

"W-why is there a dog in my office?"

Lynda leaning against the wall, refolding her arms. "The reason there is a dog in your office, Colin, is that a large, bald man with tattoos arrived here tonight, forced his way in, threatened you, threatened me, threatened Spike -"

"Not necessarily in that order," added Spike.

"- and then left the dog there to guard us until he came back. So I'm going to ask you this once and once only, Colin; what have you done?"

Colin looked blank. Well, blank_er_. "What have I done about what?"

"Well, to put it another way," said Spike with a grin, "how much do you owe and who to?"

"And more importantly," said Lynda, "have you done whatever you've done with _Junior Gazette_ funds?"

He gaped at them. "Lynda. Spike!" he said, sounding as genuinely upset as you would expect from a man who spent an hour each night practising his genuine emotions in the mirror. "I'm hurt, I'm shocked...I-I'm just so hurt and shocked and _hurt_ that you would accuse me - me, Colin Mathews, your old loyal friend who's been here since the very beginning, who's stood by you through all those vicious rumours, through the bad times, through the power-mad ego trips and the ashtray-throwing -"

"Colin, do you _want_ to live to see twenty-one?" Lynda snapped.

His response was to suddenly gasp and clutch the right side of his chest in a dramatic sort of fashion. "Oof...I'm sorry, Lynda, I'll be all right in a minute. It's just that old bullet wound flaring up again...you remember, the one I got in the gun siege when I heroically saved all your lives..." Lynda and Spike exchanged glances as Colin grabbed the door frame with one hand and held the other in front of him with a 'stop' gesture. "It's okay, guys, I'll be fine. The doctor just said I needed rest and quiet...my best friends not yelling at me, that sort of thing..."

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Colin, I'll put it simply. Tell me what's really going on or die. Your choice."

He paused. "Could I have a moment to think about it?"

"No."

"Lynda, I swear to you as your friend, as your trusted advisor and close personal friend, I have no idea who this so-called 'bald man with the tattoos' is," Colin said, helpfully making quotation marks with his fingers to emphasise the point. "But if he turns up again, could you do me a quick favour and tell him I've moved to Peru? I'd be very much obliged." And with that he stepped back and closed the doors in one swift movement.

"Colin!" Lynda made a noise that was almost a growl and tugged at the doors which resolutely failed to open. She looked at Spike. "He's jammed them with something. I'll go round to catch him coming out the back door, you wait here in case he doubles back."

"_Lynda_..." groaned Spike and she paused on her flight out of the newsroom.

"What?"

"Whatever Colin's done or hasn't done...does it matter? I mean really? Look, we could still get out of here before it's tomorrow already and go and have that dinner."

She looked at him as though he had started dribbling on his shoe. "This is important, Spike. This is the reputation of the _Junior Gazette_ we could be talking about here!"

"So?" he said, regretting it instantly as she moved into what he thought of as the classic Lynda Day fighting pose; both knuckles on the desk in front of her as she leaned forward to glare. "I mean," he hastily corrected, "whatever Colin's up to, it can't be any worse than any stunt he's pulled before. At least it can wait 'til morning!"

"Spike, I believe in dealing with problems as soon as they arrive, not leaving them until they get so bad they threaten the survival of my newspaper!"

He threw up his hands. "This is not about your newspaper! Why can't you admit that you'd rather spend an evening chasing around after Colin bloody Mathews than spend it with me?"

"Because I can't see what you're getting so worked up about!" she shouted back. "It was just a Friday night, there'll be plenty of other ones! Why does this one matter so much?"

"Because," Spike muttered at the floor.

"'Because'?"

"Because!"

"Is this about that surprise you mentioned?" she asked, brow furrowed. Then a thought seemed to strike her and she froze in horror. "Oh, no..."

"Boss," he said quickly, "now don't jump to -"

"To be fair," interrupted a familiar voice, "I'm not sure you've really thought this plan through." They both looked up and realised that they had been too engrossed to notice Colin enter the main doors of the newsroom, pushed along by the bald man.

"Shut up!" growled the man and Colin nodded, holding his hands up as he was pushed forward as though he were being held at gunpoint.

"That's a valid point of view, certainly," he said, "but I wonder if you would be willing to consider another interpretation?"

"I said, shut up!" He pushed Colin down into a chair which shifted back on its castors, wobbling alarmingly.

"Okay, I can see you're a straight-talking guy, a man of few words. Hey, I get that, I've been accused of being a bit taciturn in the past myself, right guys?" He winked at Spike and Lynda who were staring at him in mutual horror. "Some crazy stuff going on tonight, am I right?"

"Colin?" said Lynda.

"Yes, boss?"

"Shut up."

"Right, okay. You're the boss, boss."

She strode over to the bald man who was watching her suspiciously. "Nice to meet you again. Mind if we call the police this time?"

He ignored her question, pointing his thumb at Colin. "You just called him Colin."

She raised her eyebrows. "And?"

"When I found him running for it out on the road, I asked him if he was Colin Mathews and he said no."

"It's a nickname," piped up Colin from his chair before Lynda had a chance to speak. "We've got some wacky guys on this paper, I'm telling you. I mean, calling me Colin when my name's really -"

"Shut up!" Baldy turned back to Lynda. "Well?"

She glanced at Colin, who winked at her. "Fine," she said with a sigh. "It's a nickname."

Behind the bald man, out of sight, Colin had started frantically shaking his head, pointing to himself, then pointing to Spike and nodding up and down.

"So what's his real name?" said the bald man, oblivious.

"Why should I tell you that?" asked Lynda, stalling for time as Spike stared at Colin in confusion, mouthing "What?" silently. "You haven't even given me your name yet, and you're the one trespassing on private property!"

Behind the man, Colin was still gesturing frantically. Then, his eye possibly caught by the movement, the bald man turned round and Colin awkwardly turned his pointing figure around and started dusting imaginary lint from his jacket. "Because," said the man slowly, "if you don't tell me what his name is, I'm going to assume he really is Colin Mathews. And then I'm going to smash his head in."

Colin held up his hand. "Are you quite sure there's no room for negotiation there?"

"Shut it."

"Right, yes, sorry."

"So?" the bald man asked Lynda again. "What's his name?"

Spike, who had finally realised what all the frantic pointing had been about, ducked back out of the man's eyeline, stood next to Colin and pointed at himself. Colin nodded desperately and Lynda caught on. "James Thompson," she said firmly.

Colin shook his head, his eyes wide in panic, and Lynda quickly added, "But we call him Spike. It's a nickname. Spike Thomson. "

"James Thomson," repeated the man. "And you call him Spike."

"Yep, that's right," she said happily.

"And Colin as well."

"Yes. That too."

He glanced back at Colin who was giving his best smile despite the terror in his eyes. "So why did he tell me his name was Tim?"

"You think my name's Tim Thompson?" asked Spike in disbelief.

Colin looked hurt. "Well, why did you change it to James and never tell me? Honestly, Spike, I thought we were friends."

"Colin, I have never in my life been called 'Tim Thompson'!"

"Well, you could have told me."

"All right!" cried the bald man. "Now I have had just about e-bloody-nough of this. It's been a long and confusing night, and if someone doesn't tell me _right this minute_ that this little scumbag is really Colin Mathews, I'm going to beat him to a bloody pulp anyway."

"Well, that's hardly much of an incentive, is it?" said Lynda.

"Right," Spike agreed. "'Let me beat him to a bloody pulp or I'll beat him to a bloody pulp'?"

"Hardly _Sophie's Choice_."

Colin held up his hand again. "Might I suggest a third option?"

"Can everybody just shut the hell up!" shouted the bald man and they all fell silent. "Right." He paused, apparently thinking; then turned to Colin. "What third option?"

He got to his feet, adopting his best about-to-make-a-sale expression. "Big Al sent you, am I right?"

"Maybe," said the bald man cautiously.

"Who's Big Al?" asked Lynda.

Colin waved a hand. "Decent fellow. Salt of the earth. I, er, do a bit of business with him."

"Yeah," said Baldy, pointing his own hand at Colin. "You promised him the gear, then he hears you're doing the deal with old Harry instead. Big Al's not happy, mate, not happy at all."

"It's all just a big misunderstanding," reassured Colin smoothly. "Whoever said I was working with Harry? Look, I've got Big Al's merchandise out the back and if he's still happy with the price we agreed, it can be his as soon as I have the cash in hand."

The bald man stared at him suspiciously. "Then why did you say that in the first place?"

"I didn't know if I could trust you," said Colin, spreading his hands wide. "Let me tell you, there's some serious interest in this little item. I need to make sure it's going to someone who appreciates its full value, if you know what I'm saying?"

"Colin, what have you been selling?" demanded Lynda, but they both ignored her.

"Well..." said the bald man, stroking his chin. "I suppose as long as Big Al gets the gear, it'll be all right..."

"You're a gent," said Colin. "I'll just nip out the back and bring it through for you, all right?"

"Do I look stupid?" Baldy pointed at Lynda. "Sophie can get it. You stay here where I can see you."

"Hang on just a minute!" she cried. "I'm still editor here...and it's Lynda actually," she added to the bald man, who stared at her in confusion.

"Thought you said your name was Sophie?"

She ignored him. "Colin, have you been selling stolen goods out of my newsroom?"

Colin began to laugh, and the bald man unexpectedly joined in with a deep-throated chuckle. "She's such a kidder! I don't know how we put up with her, I really don't. But seriously, Lynda, could you pop out to the back room and bring out the merchandise for the nice man? It's the big box on the right-hand shelf, next to the box of curling tongs."

"The ones that caused those fires?" asked Spike.

"Hey," said Colin severely, "that was never proven for a fact. The fire department said it could have been the toaster."

"Didn't you sell them the toaster?"

"Spike, give it a rest," said Lynda. "So what is this 'merchandise' then? Dodgy? One of your Uncle's products? Or just something banned from sale in this country?"

He looked hurt. "Lynda, this is a legitimate business operation."

"Fine, fine, I'll get it."

She departed for the back room with bad grace, leaving Spike to smile at the other two. "So...how about that weather, huh?"

The bald man stared at him. "What?"

"Small talk? Passing the time? Never mind." He shoved his hands in his pockets, started whistling, then thought better of it from the look the man gave him.

"Excuse me?" came a voice from the back, and they all turned to see Lynda poke her head around the door to Colin's den. "Mr...?"

The bald man looked at her blankly, before shrugging. "Smith."

"Smith?" she said sceptically. "Well then, 'Mr Smith', are you aware that your dog has just been sick in here?"

"What?" He raced for the back room, the others following at a distance, and let out a howl of anguish as he saw the dog lying on the floor. "Arnold! What have they done to you?" he cried, dropping to his knees and cradling the animal's head in his lap. Arnold continued to whine, staring up at him with large, brown eyes.

The bald man looked up. "What have you done to my dog?"

"Look, if you will bring animals into a building where they don't belong and force them to stay there," said Lynda, "it's hardly our fault if they swallow something they shouldn't."

He stared at her in horror. "You've poisoned him!"

"Oh please, he'll be fine."

Arnold apparently decided that now would be the perfect time to start choking pathetically, and the bald man got to his feet, murderous intent in his eyes. "What did he swallow?"

"I don't know," said Lynda.

"Tell me!"

"I don't know!" She nodded at Spike. "He won't tell me, so why don't you ask him yourself?"

Spike held up his hands. "Whoa, now, where did I get brought into this? I thought I was playing bemused bystander in this little drama. Or is amused?" he added as an aside to Lynda. "I always get those confused."

"Tell me what you've done to my dog!" roared the man and Spike took a step backwards despite himself.

"May I make an interjection here?" said Colin and three voices snapped 'no' in unison. "Fine. Please yourself. But I think your dog may be about to choke to death."

"Arnold!" howled the man, throwing himself at the dog once again. "Quick, call an ambulance!"

"I doubt they'd come out for a dog," said Lynda.

He didn't seem to hear her, anxiously stroking Arnold's head. "Come on, mate, you'll be all right!" He seemed practically on the verge of tears as the dog stood up, all four legs wobbling, and proceeded to be sick again on the floor.

"Ohh, that's disgusting," said Spike.

"Hey, that's my floor!" said Colin, shutting up quickly as the bald man looked at him.

"I hope you're going to clean that up," said Lynda. "The cleaners are threatening to go on strike already after the incident at Julie's party."

"You can all shut up, all right?" The bald man knelt down again - away from the vomit, obviously - and leaned forward. "Arnold? You okay, mate?"

The dog barked feebly, but was clearly already beginning to feel better, tail wagging as he started to walk towards his owner.

Spike leaned down, holding his breath and trying not to think about the smell. "Hey, Lynda..."

"I see it," she said grimly. A small metallic circle was glinting in the midst of the substance they were all trying to ignore. She turned to the bald man. "Well? You've got your 'merchandise', whatever it is, and your dog's fine. Planning to leave or do I have to resort to the police again?"

The bald man stared at her. "You're all nutters," he said eventually, still sounding as if he was about to burst into tears. "Here," he said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and throwing it at Colin, who just about caught it with fumbling fingers and proceeded to open it, counting the contents. Then he bent down and picked up his dog, holding him as tenderly as a baby. "You can carry the island," he said to Colin. "And if I ever see any of you lot again..." He shook his head sadly. "I ain't responsible for what happens, right? Come on, Arnold."

"Hang on just a minute," said Spike as Colin picked up the box and started to follow the man out of the room. "Did he just say 'the island'? Or do I need to clean my ears out again?" He turned his head on one side and started banging on one of his ears, muttering to himself.

"For the last time," said Lynda, ignoring him, "what's in the box?"

"Tracy Island," said Colin matter-of-factly.

They both gaped at him. "This was all about a _toy_?"

"A toy?" He chuckled. "Lynda, this is not a toy. This is a pure gold nugget in this box here. Have you tried to get one of these in the shops? There won't be any more coming in until after Christmas, but I've got my own supplier. And these guys are desperate enough to pay _anything_, it's the easiest money I've ever made."

"So where did you get it from?" asked Spike, nodding at the box.

"Well..."

"The truth, Colin."

"My sister made it. Saw it on one of those kids' shows. A mate at Woolies let me have a couple of the empty boxes, job done."

"Colin, no," said Lynda. "You're selling him a toy made by your sister out of cardboard tubes, from _Blue Peter_?"

"What's your point?"

"It's unethical!"

"Not if he doesn't find out."

Spike grinned. "The man has a point, Lynda."

She moved over to the door. "Out. And I don't want to see you again until Monday morning, by which time I expect you to have cleared up this mess, with your tongue if necessary!"

"I say," said Colin, shocked, "that's a bit hard on poor old Spike, isn't it?"

"I meant you," snapped Lynda. "Out. Now!"

He hoisted the box back on his shoulder, opened his mouth to say something, obviously thought better of it and left.

Lynda turned back to Spike, who was watching her nervously. "Right. Well. I suppose we ought to talk."

He held out his hands. "Okay, I can explain the key..."

"Spike, I don't know what to tell..." She stopped. "Wait, what key?"

"That key," said Spike, pointing to the patch of floor she was trying not to look at. "What were you talking about?"

She looked again at the small circle of metal, realised it was a key ring attached to a glinting Yale key, and felt such a rush of relief she nearly fell over. "Nothing. Same thing. Anything. So, explain the key."

"It's a key to my flat," he said awkwardly. "You know, since you're there so much anyway, so that you can let yourself in when you've been working way too late...even though you promised Kenny before he left that you weren't going to do that any more -" He was interrupted by Lynda throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.

"What was that for?" he asked when they finally came up for air.

"Well, you know," she said with a smile. "The 'L' thing."

He sighed. "It wouldn't kill you to say it just once, you know, boss."

"Don't tempt fate," she warned. "It could."

"Okay then, can I say it?"

"Now, why do you want to spoil my good mood?" She reached for the door. "Come on, let's go and have some dinner."


End file.
